


Long Way Down

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Greg is a Saint, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More angst, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a police raid, Greg makes a troubling discovery. His subsequent attempts to help Sherlock aren't appreciated. At first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Way Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the beginning of 'His Last Vow' (because there just wasn't enough Lestrade in that episode!), but is set sometime shortly before Series One.

London has its fair share of ancient, decrepit buildings that are good for nothing but tearing down and starting again from scratch, and the example that loomed before DI Greg Lestrade, lit a sickly orange by the evening glow of sodium lamps, was a perfect specimen. Decades – centuries – of smog and dust had turned its once red brickwork to a lifeless grey and the windows had long since lost their glass, replaced now by graffiti-daubed wooden boards that gazed blindly back at Greg with the dull, vacant stare of a corpse.

A call went up nearby and the myriad members of the Metropolitan Police who had previously been milling about reassembled themselves into a more organised representation of a task force and prepared to enter the building. Vice had had eyes on the place for several weeks now, and knew it was being put to use as a crack den. In an effort to make a dent in the sale and supply of drugs in the city, they had chosen that night to launch a raid on the house, hoping to gain some information on the dealers.

Greg and his team had been recruited to provide extra bodies for the exercise, and that was why he found himself stood outside this dilapidated example of Victorian architecture when he would much rather be in bed.

A uniformed constable kitted out in full riot gear and brandishing the Enforcer stepped up to the front door only to have his parade rained on moments later when somebody pointed out the door was open. Not quite ajar, but not pushed flush into its frame. Dejected, the bloke stood back and everyone piled inside.

Reluctantly, Greg followed. If the exterior of the building was any indication, he expected the interior to be a hellhole. He wasn’t disappointed. Immediately upon setting foot across the threshold, he was assailed by the stench of urine, body odour, and a variety of other smells equally as lovely that he preferred not to identify.

Breathing as shallowly as possible, Greg ventured deeper into the house, the sounds and calls of police activity filling the stale air around him. In the dingy, oppressive darkness, he stumbled over something that turned out to be someone’s foot, its owner slumped semi-conscious in the hallway. Leaving the wasted youth to be attended by the paramedics who had been invited along to the party, Greg clicked on his torch and continued up the stairs to the third floor, following his instructions in the plan to sweep the entire building.

Fellow officers headed for a couple of closed doors, taking far too much pleasure from kicking them open. Greg rolled his eyes at their youthful enthusiasm as he passed them, choosing the final door on the right.

Inside what had probably been originally intended for use as a bedroom, the air was thick with the smell of stale smoke – of both tobacco and weed origin – and the only illumination was provided by whatever outside light made it through a broken board that left half a window uncovered.

Wrinkling his nose, Greg slowly swept the room with the yellow beam of torchlight, picking out piles of dirty, discarded blankets and sheets, each and every one unfit for its designed purpose. Really not the kind of place he’d ever want to spend longer than absolutely necessary.

“Lestrade!”

His name was called out in a disturbingly bright voice, incongruous in its familiarity; a voice he instantly recognized but couldn’t quite bring himself to believe he was hearing until he turned around and saw the dishevelled, grubby figure of Sherlock Holmes sat on an equally dirty mattress on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, dark curls hanging lank around his pale face, several days’ worth of stubble dusted over his jaw, the dim light and its shadows throwing the angles of his face into stark relief; the sole occupant of this squalid chamber.

“Sherlock?” Greg stood frozen in disbelief for several seconds before he realised it wasn’t so much _disbelief_ that had caught him in its grasp upon stumbling across his consulting detective in the middle of a crack den, but _disappointment_.

Sherlock flashed him an insouciant rictus grin of acknowledgement, completely oblivious as to why Greg should be there and what that meant for him.

It only got worse as Greg moved closer; Sherlock looked like hell, far removed from his usual, elegant appearance, and his pupils eloquently revealed that he was, beyond a doubt, most definitely high. _Bloody hell_. The Yarder’s heart sank and he felt suddenly ill at the sight. If only he could believe this was all some mad hallucination. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, willing the man to be nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

No such luck. He’d never had much of an imagination.

“Fuck, Sherlock. You can’t be here.”

“And yet here I am.” He threw an arm wide to emphasize his presence, as if Greg still harboured any doubts.

The sound of raised voices reached them, echoing off the bare walls of the old building. Wincing, Greg cast a glance over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. He had to get Sherlock out of there before anyone else saw him and, worse, recognised him.

“Come on.” Greg grabbed Sherlock by the arm and hauled him up, trying to make him get to his feet. Sherlock resisted, almost toppling Greg off balance, but the DI was in no mood to put up with this show of stubborn opposition; he just tugged harder until Sherlock had no choice but to stagger up from his mattress. Keeping a tight grip on the younger man’s arm, Greg manhandled him toward the fire escape, not willing to risk running the gauntlet of other officers spread throughout the house.

“I think this is what you would term ‘police brutality’,” Sherlock protested in far too loud a voice.

“Just shut up,” Greg hissed in his ear, finally getting him out onto the metal steps – a modern, health and safety-conscious addition to the building that seemed a little pointless when the house looked to be in danger of crumbling to pieces at any moment.

Quickly – or as fast as a resistant Sherlock would allow – Greg hustled his uncooperative charge down the steps that clattered worryingly loudly, across cracked, weed-strewn pavement, and around the corner to where he had parked his car. Throwing open the rear door, he bundled Sherlock unceremoniously inside.

“Stay here. Do _not_ move.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock’s reply was an insolent drawl. Greg slammed the door.

Jogging back to the house, Greg slipped inside and joined the crowd of cops and junkies, hoping no one had noticed his brief disappearance. Thankfully, there was so much hectic activity, bodies moving back and forth all around the place, that he appeared to have gotten away with it. Thank god.

Making a half-arsed excuse about supervising the transfer of some of the ‘residents’, he stole out again, fortunately avoiding Donovan and Anderson. They could question him about his vanishing act later – right now he had a bigger problem to deal with. A damn great Sherlock Holmes-shaped problem. He was relieved, and more than a little surprised, to find that Sherlock had done as he had commanded and remained in the car. Silently, he slipped behind the wheel and started the engine, briefly meeting Sherlock’s furious gaze in the rear-view mirror as he pulled away, leaving the squalid den behind them.

Drawing to a halt outside his own building a few minutes later, Greg all but wrenched the key in the ignition to cut the engine. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who was pissed off with recent events.

“Right, come on,” he barked in his most no-nonsense voice as he got out – the one he used with the scrotes he often had to deal with in his capacity as an upholder of the law. Unfortunately, Sherlock rarely bothered to even put up the pretence of recognizing authority; he remained slumped in his seat, arms folded stubbornly across his chest, staring out of the window.

The little patience he had left rapidly beginning to wane, Greg yanked open the rear door. “Get _out_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock, predictably, ignored him, stared through him when he purposely moved into his line of sight. Greg reached into the car, intending to take hold of Sherlock’s arm and tug him out, but Sherlock twisted away from his grasp with an angry snarl.

Greg instinctively glanced around, checking nearby windows for telltale signs of twitching curtains. It really wouldn’t reflect well on his position as a Scotland Yard detective to be seen arguing with a wasted wretch outside his own home. Never mind that the bastard was actually Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Satisfied that he was safe from prying eyes for now, Greg took a deep, nerve-steadying breath and leaned down to peer in at Sherlock. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously calm. “If you don’t get out of this car, I am going to get back in, drive you back to the Yard, and process you with all the other junkies. Then see if you’re ever allowed within spitting distance of a crime scene ever again.”

That got through to him. Sherlock finally lifted his gaze to Greg, eyes burning with such intense hatred that Greg wondered that he didn’t ignite on the spot. “You wouldn’t dare.” Sherlock’s voice was as sharp-edged as his glare.

“Try me.”

There must have been something in Greg’s tone that convinced Sherlock not to argue, or, more likely, he just didn’t want to risk it, knowing that Greg could easily put a stop to his involvement in police cases. Sneering his displeasure, he pushed past Greg as he climbed out of the car and stormed off towards Greg’s front door, leaving the Yarder to lock the vehicle and hurry after him to prevent any attempt to break in.

Closing the door once they were both inside – locks still intact – Greg turned, only to come face to face with an exploding Sherlock. It was lucky his wife was off on that seminar thing; this was not something she would ever have tolerated in her home.

“You ruined everything!”

“You were doing a pretty decent job of that yourself.”

“I was undercover!”

“I was doing my _job_!” Was he honestly supposed to swallow that excuse? As much as Sherlock liked to promulgate the opinion, Greg wasn’t an idiot. “Should I have left you there to get hauled in for possession or dealing? That part of your plan, was it?”

“I was on a _case_!” The energy pulsing though Sherlock as he emphasized his point with erratic gestures was beginning to worry Greg.

“You’re fuckin’ high!”

“That’s of no consequence –”

“It’s of pretty major fucking consequence when the consultant I allow access to crime scenes is found wallowing in a crack den!” Greg’s hands were aching; they were balled so tightly into fists he knew his nails would leave indentations in his palms. He had to get Sherlock out of his sight before he either drew blood or punched the sod in the face. Deliberately avoiding Sherlock’s accusatory glare, he stalked into the living room and dropped heavily into an armchair. He tried to take a calming breath but it had little effect, so he scrubbed his face hard with his hands, trying to force the fury out.

“That’s what you’re worried about isn’t it?” Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking no less angry but a little more cunningly perspicacious. Greg just glowered at him, waiting for his great revelation. It wasn’t long until Sherlock enlightened him. “Your own reputation. I saw the way you looked around out there in the street, worried the neighbours would see, worried people would start to realize you can’t solve a case without the help of a drug-addicted sociopath.”

Okay, that was partly true. Greg couldn’t deny that he hadn’t wanted anyone to notice what was going on, but it wasn’t just his own reputation he was trying to protect – surely Sherlock knew that by now. Why would he have constantly fought Sherlock’s corner, convinced the powers-that-be to allow him to ‘consult’ on cases, put up with all his shit, if he was only concerned about his own standing? It was so much more than all that, more than just maintaining a good façade for public perception. It may be intangible, but sometimes Lestrade felt stifled by it. Yet he never wished it gone. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

The fight suddenly left Greg. He couldn’t stand to watch this drug-fuelled parody of the brilliant detective pick them both apart. “How can you not see that everything I do, I do to help you?” His voice was drained of emotion, flat.

“You do it because I close your cases.”

“I do it because I care about you, you fucking bastard.” There was no heat in the words, just the truth, laid bare.

Sherlock fell silent. Perhaps he was processing what Greg had said, perhaps it was just an effect of the drug in his system. When Greg risked another glance at the man, he was relieved to see that his confrontational demeanour had been somewhat quelled; he was leaning against the door-jamb, his brow furrowed in thought.

Taking advantage of this lull in the storm, Greg pushed up from the chair and began to steer Sherlock down the hall, one hand in the centre of his back, guiding. The detective put up only a token resistance, allowing himself to be ushered into the bedroom where Greg deposited him on the bed. If he could get Sherlock quiet and settled, maybe he would go to sleep and stay that way until the drugs had worked their way out of his system. That was the hope, anyway.

Sherlock, however, appeared to have no intention of resting. Blinking, he studied his new surroundings, running his hands over the duvet on which he sat. He seemed a little…dazed, or maybe confused, either of which was frightening to witness in a man of such great intellect.

Greg crouched down so his eyes were level with Sherlock’s. “What have you taken?” he demanded, his tone insistent but gentle; he didn’t want to trigger another argument.

“Nothing,” Sherlock mumbled, distracted. He again refused to meet Greg’s gaze, staring instead at his hand on the bedcovers.

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not an idiot, Sherlock.” Sherlock snorted his amusement at that claim. Greg ground his teeth together with irritation. “I know you’ve taken _something_. What?”

Sherlock shrugged, a lazy up and down hitch of one shoulder. “The usual.”

Greg sighed, resigned, and rose back to his full height. “You can stay here. Sleep it off.”

The detective’s expression suddenly cleared and he leapt to his feet, wild energy reasserting itself in his slender frame. “No. I need to –”

“You don’t need to do anything.” Greg grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and forced him back to the bed – no easy feat with such a tall, athletic man, even one currently under the influence of cocaine. That was probably making it worse, in fact.

“But the police –” he spat the word as if it were a curse “– are going to ruin everything.”

If Sherlock really had been on a case, as he had claimed, Greg doubted he could make any productive progress in his current state. “Let the police do their job for once.”

“Ha!”

Greg forestalled any further discussion about the incompetence of the Metropolitan Police Force by pushing obstinately at Sherlock’s shoulders until the younger man laid back. When Greg was fairly sure he was going to stay put, he removed Sherlock’s dirty, scuffed shoes, then grimaced at the rest of the man’s attire, wondering at the state his bed sheets were going to be left in. Better a few ruined sheets than leaving Sherlock to his own devices, however.

“Stay here. Sleep.” His tone brooked no argument and, fortunately, Sherlock’s only response was to pout unhappily up at him – a childish jut of his lower lip – before yanking the duvet up over his head.

Greg closed the bedroom door, leaving Sherlock in the darkened silence. He returned to the front door, checking it was securely locked although he was under no illusion that Sherlock could get out if he wanted to. That was no reason to make it easy for the bastard. He had never envisioned himself becoming a guardian angel – not for an intelligent, grown man at any rate – but it was a role he had found himself taking on without having to give it any thought. Maybe he _was_ an idiot, but if Sherlock wouldn’t take care of himself, Greg would have to do it for him, despite knowing he would never receive anything in return. He didn’t expect anything, if he was perfectly honest with himself.

In the bathroom, Greg shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, wanting to rid himself of the day’s trials and hoping the hot water would slough off his troubles. However unlikely that was to happen, he did feel the tension begin to withdraw ever so slightly as he stood under the scalding jet, the water pelting his skin.

He was just beginning to feel human again when he heard the click of the bathroom door, unmistakable even through the sound of the streaming water. Now, he had _definitely_ locked that. There was just enough time to mentally curse Sherlock before the man was pushing past the shower curtain and stepping into the tub beside him, still fully clothed.

“What the…” Greg spluttered, incredulous. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock’s intense gaze was fixed on Greg, startlingly keen despite the drug-blown pupils. “I’ve made a deduction.”

“Really.” Irritated, not curious.

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded as sure of himself as he always did when he had made a revelatory discovery. “You want me. Sexually.”

“What…?” Greg stumbled over his words as his brain tried to produce the correct response to that. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure there _was_ a correct response. Under the guise of switching off the flow of water, Greg turned away to hide the flush he felt rising up his neck. Hopefully, the heat would hide the evidence.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

 _Yes_. “No.” _Fuck_. That was not a thought he ever allowed himself to entertain, however often it threatened to intrude. No, there were more important things to worry about without giving his own fucked-up feelings free rein. Like keeping Sherlock on the straight and narrow, and making sure he never put himself at risk like this ever again.

Before Sherlock could start making any further deductions, Greg shoved the curtain aside and pulled him out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around his own waist then grimaced at Sherlock’s drenched clothes. “You’re soaked,” he announced redundantly. When Sherlock gave no indication that he cared how wet he was, Greg growled and tugged his shirt up.

Sherlock obediently raised his arms so Greg could pull the garment free, watching him with a knowing smile on his lips. “I’m not very good at people, but I know you.”

“You don’t even know my name.” Greg tossed the dripping shirt into the bathtub.

“Yes, I do. It’s Lestrade.”

“It’s Greg.”

“If you say so.”

Greg turned his attention to the detective’s equally wet trousers and gestured at them with an exasperated swipe of an arm. “Take them off.”

“You do it.”

Neither man moved; a bizarre stand off in the middle of Greg’s bathroom that Greg had absolutely no chance of winning. Giving in, he unbuckled Sherlock’s belt and unfastened his trousers with businesslike efficiency and yanked them down. Sherlock stepped out of them and Greg threw them after the shirt before the puddle on the floor could grow any larger. He grabbed another towel and draped it around the younger man’s shoulders. As he straightened and began to step away, he was stopped in his tracks by cold fingers grasping his wrist.

“Take me to bed, Lestrade. I’ll let you fuck me.”

Greg closed his eyes, trying to suppress the wave of arousal that Sherlock’s baritone sent surging through him before it could manifest itself physically. They flew open again at the touch to his collarbone. His breath caught in his lungs and he was powerless to do anything but stand frozen to the spot as long, pale fingers traced the line of his clavicle then continued on a playful downward route over damp, bare skin, making muscles twitch and leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

As Sherlock drew perilously close to the barrier of the towel tucked around his waist, Greg stirred, mentally shaking himself from his trance even as he ached to let Sherlock continue.

“Stop it!” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and tore it away. Judging by the smug look on his face, Sherlock nevertheless knew he had claimed some kind of victory; to be honest, he had – and that only infuriated Greg even more.

He dragged Sherlock back into the bedroom and dumped him back on the bed. Rummaging in a drawer, he dug out a spare pair of pyjamas, which he tossed at the arrogant, maddening, genius prick, just barely remembering to take some for himself before he stalked angrily out of the room, slamming the door behind him without even casting another glance in Sherlock’s direction. Only God knew what would happen if he did.

* * * *

Sleep seemed just out of reach for Greg as he lay in the dark on a sofa that was a poor substitute for a bed. He was exhausted – dealing with Sherlock always left him weary – but his mind was unable to stop churning, replaying the moment he had seen the detective huddled on that soiled mattress, trying to determine the real meaning behind every word he had said, everything he had done. It was a futile exercise, but one he just couldn’t cease. Anger vied with frustration, yet in the end it was undeniable affection that claimed victory. If only the infuriatingly oblivious genius could just sodding see that Greg wasn’t acting like a bastard for the sheer hell of it, but because he felt an overwhelming desire to help the stubborn git.

How was he supposed to do that when all he ever received was opposition? Christ, why couldn’t his life be simple? But did he really want a quiet, peaceful life when that would preclude any association with Sherlock? There was only one possible answer to that question, but rather than let himself fall into the trap of admitting it, Greg forced the subject from his mind, concentrating instead on recalling the Premier League fixtures for the rest of the season. Finally, mercifully, sleep took hold of him.

Something clattered nearby and Greg was instantly alert, if not altogether awake. He squinted into the darkness as he heard another sound – a rustling – then had the brilliant idea of switching on the lamp beside the sofa.

The source of the noises froze in the sudden illumination; Sherlock had his back to Greg but it was clear he had been in the process of rifling through the bookcase he stood in front of. Unfazed by the realisation Greg was awake, Sherlock resumed his rummaging.

“What are you doing?”

“Searching.” He used that superior tone of voice that declared Greg’s question stupid.

“For what?” Greg’s brain hadn’t yet quite shed the fog of sleep, which was probably why he felt only exasperated, rather than completely pissed off, to find Sherlock out of bed and messing with his possessions.

“Cigarettes.”

Ah. Should’ve guessed. “I don’t have any.”

“Yes, you do.” Damn the man. Well, if he thought Greg was going to volunteer their whereabouts he had another think coming.

As it turned out, Sherlock needed no such help. As per bloody usual. He took one look at Greg, proclaimed a triumphant, “Ah!” and swept from the room. A few seconds later, Greg heard a kitchen cupboard open.

Levering himself up from the sofa, Greg shuffled blearily to the kitchen to find Sherlock with a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other.

“Want one?” Sherlock asked casually as he set the cigarette between his lips, flicked the lighter and held the flame to its tip.

Greg watched him draw the flame into the cigarette and felt his fingers twitch. “No.” Never mind that Sherlock was offering him one of his own damn fags, he was not going to let himself give into the need for nicotine.

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock took a deep drag, the glowing tip the brightest spot of light in the dusky kitchen, and blew the smoke in Greg’s direction before sinking down to sit on the tiled floor, his back against the fridge door.

“I thought I told you to go to sleep.”

Sherlock gave an insolent shrug. “Couldn’t. Boring.”

Greg sighed. _He_ wasn’t going to be getting any sleep in the near future either, was he?

“Sod it.” Crouching down beside the younger man, Greg plucked the cigarette from his lips and placed it between his own, sucking in a welcome lungful of toxic chemicals. Releasing it on a slow exhale, he offered the cigarette back to a smug Sherlock, who accepted it with a grin.

Greg dropped to the floor before his knees could begin to protest, settling himself on the cold tiles next to Sherlock. In a silence that was comfortable if not quite tension-free, they continued to pass the cigarette between them until Greg released the last of the smoke on a sigh and dropped his head back against the cool fridge door.

Sherlock mirrored the action, staring up at the rectangle of muted light painted on the ceiling by the streetlight outside the window, his hands folded in his lap. While Greg was grateful that the detective had calmed down, he couldn’t help but fear that a quiet Sherlock was more worrying than a hyper Sherlock.

“What were you doing there tonight?” Sherlock’s question took Greg by surprise. Was Sherlock so fucked that he couldn’t figure that out? It didn’t take superhuman deductive skills to ascertain why police would show up at a known crack den. That wasn’t the crux of the question, however. “Drug raids aren’t exactly your division.”

“It’s called inter-departmental cooperation.”

“Sounds tedious.”

“Yeah.” One thing was for certain: it was fortunate Greg _had_ been there to drag Sherlock’s sorry arse out before anybody else had chance to stumble across him. He felt the need to emphasise just how fortunate Sherlock had been. “You’re lucky I _was_ there.”

Sherlock snorted. “That’s debatable.”

There was no point trying to explain the numerous reasons Sherlock should be thanking him, so Greg contented himself with rolling his eyes and saving his breath. Sherlock had fallen into a silence that Greg assumed would soon become a full-blown sulk.

He was wrong.

After several minutes of a quiet broken only by the soft ticking of the clock and the hum of the fridge, Sherlock spoke into the shadows.

“You’ve always taken care of me.”

That was unexpected, but easier to deal with than Sherlock’s previous attempt to untangle the reasons behind Greg’s apparently masochistic good deeds. “Someone has to. You refuse to take care of yourself.”

Sherlock grudgingly conceded that point with a small incline of his head. “But you don’t expect anything in return beyond my assistance with your cases.”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Why do we do anything?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because, Sherlock, most of us are actually capable of feeling something for other people. Even those who drive us up the bloody wall.”

Sherlock pulled a face, as if glad he rarely had to bother with such ridiculous concepts. It often baffled Greg how Sherlock could be so brilliant at deducing the facts of a person’s life, yet remain clueless when it came to their feelings.

“It isn’t just a sex thing.” He sounded genuinely curious about this new puzzle. Damn him.

Greg shook his head in confirmation but was afraid to speak lest he reveal anything more. The damage had likely already been done and Sherlock would be careful to keep his distance from now on. The thought left Greg feeling empty, bleak, and a little insulted that Sherlock could think him so shallow. He would never intentionally do anything to hurt Sherlock, and had to make that known.

“Sherlock, I would never –”

“I know.”

Perhaps all wasn’t lost. Perhaps Sherlock would remember none of this after he crashed. Sherlock didn’t look at him, just continued to contemplate the ceiling, which was fine; Greg was afraid of what he might wordlessly reveal under closer scrutiny. The hushed darkness seemed somehow safe.

The night’s chill began to seep into his bones, the tiles grew harder beneath him. Greg couldn’t stay sitting on the kitchen floor much longer and was considering rising and commencing the battle to get Sherlock back in bed when the other man moved, finally stirring after so many minutes of absolute stillness.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around them and dropped his head forward to rest on his forearms, looking for all the world like a child huddling in on himself, making himself smaller. He suddenly seemed vulnerable and Greg wanted to enfold him in a reassuring embrace. But that probably wasn’t wise.

Sherlock made a small noise – almost a whimper – and Greg realised he was trembling. It was an almost imperceptible shivering at first, easily mistaken for a reaction to the cold, but it rapidly grew more pronounced.

“Come on.” Greg pushed himself up and slid a hand under Sherlock’s arm. “Let’s get you back to bed.” His voice sounded much steadier than he felt as he gently tugged Sherlock to his feet. For the first time that night, he met with no resistance.

Greg held on to Sherlock as he guided him back to the bedroom, the younger man’s slender frame pressed against him for support. He reluctantly relinquished his hold as Sherlock slumped to the mattress with an uncharacteristic lack of grace; he seemed detached from the world as Greg drew the covers over him and padded back to the door, intending to fetch a chair so he could remain close by in case Sherlock needed anything or his current state deteriorated any further.

“Greg?”

Framed in the doorway, Greg froze, startled at hearing his name – his correct first name – spoken in such a heartbreakingly helpless tone. It wasn’t a plea, for Sherlock never begged for anything, but a request. Uncertain, but its meaning, and the need behind it, unmistakable.

Greg was rounding the end of the bed before he had fully considered the implications of such an action, his body responding instinctively, not allowing the rational part of his mind the chance to argue the wisdom of what he was about to do.

He slipped into the other side of the bed, behind Sherlock where he lay curled on his side. For a minute, he just laid there, his gaze drawn to the mess of dark curls on the pillow beside him, wondering if he had lost his mind. Then Sherlock shifted, reaching behind and across Greg’s body for his hand, which he claimed and dragged back toward him. Greg followed, rolling onto his side and finding a new position with his chest pressed securely to Sherlock’s back and his arm wrapped around the detective, his hand still clutched in Sherlock’s and held against his heart.

He hugged the trembling body tightly, protectively, until it was calm once more. Only when the younger man finally slept did Greg allow sleep to claim him too, Sherlock still held safe in his embrace.

* * * *

Woken by the harsh glare of the low morning sun stabbing through the uncurtained window, Greg stirred, immediately sensing something was amiss.

As his brain gradually sloughed off the hazy remainders of sleep, he realised what was missing; he was alone in the bed and there was no residual warmth on the sheets beside him. Holding his breath, Greg listened for sounds of movement elsewhere in the flat, but all was silent, still.

Oh, god. Sherlock had recovered, come to his senses and fled. Greg screwed his eyes shut with a despairing groan and draped an arm across them for good measure. As if hiding from reality was that simple. Depriving himself of sight didn’t stop his mind working, however, and the many reasons he had to hate himself queued up for inspection.

It didn’t occur to him to blame Sherlock. Whatever the bloke had done, he hadn’t influenced Greg’s feelings, forced him to transfigure concern into something more. An affection that had burrowed deep, taken root, and grown.

And now he’d spooked the man. Fuck.

Slowly, common sense began to reassert itself. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t stick around come morning. No, he would seek solitude, the chance to let that huge, brilliant brain sort through recent events.

Before Greg could begin to speculate on the conclusions he might reach, he made himself rise. If he stayed in bed, trying to figure out the workings of Sherlock Holmes’s mind, he would soon go mad. Whatever else was going on, he still had to go to work, and hope like hell no one had noticed his unscheduled disappearance last night. He didn’t have the energy to conjure up a decent cover story.

With a heavy heart and a numb mind, he dragged himself through the routine of showering, dressing, and forcing himself to prepare something more substantial for breakfast than coffee and a cigarette, like a zombie running on autopilot. It took him several seconds to register the significance of the piece of paper propped beside his mobile when he went to fetch it from the living room.

_Thank you – SH._

He blinked at the note, finally picked it up to verify its existence, ran the tip of his index finger over the writing as he read it again to reassure himself he hadn’t imagined the message.

Sherlock Holmes had thanked him. That was so far removed from what he had expected it was in a different universe.

He didn’t mind this parallel world. It contained hope, and that was more than he had dared wish for.

* * * *

For two days, Greg heard nothing from Sherlock. In itself, that was nothing strange – Sherlock was hardly the most communicative person. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop Greg worrying. However hard he tried to keep his mind focused on work, he couldn’t banish his consulting detective completely from his thoughts.

Several times he almost called him, even going so far as to bring up the number on his phone without ever quite managing to hit _Call_. What would he say if Sherlock answered? And if he didn’t? That would only trigger several more worst-case scenarios.

In the end, on the morning of the third day, when he could bear it no longer, Greg sent a text. Something simple, asking if Sherlock was okay, ineloquent and so far removed from what he really wanted to say that he regretted the impersonal nature of the message; words on a screen.

There was no reply.

As soon as Greg was able, he escaped the Yard and found himself stood outside 221B Baker Street without any recollection of having physically travelled there.

Mrs. Hudson answered his knock, and when Greg, feigning indifference, asked her how Sherlock was, she could only tell him that her tenant had been very quiet the past few days. It did nothing to vanquish the anxiety that fluttered in his stomach as he climbed the stairs. The door to the flat was unlocked.

Inside, the place looked much the same as usual, but with an air of inactivity that was abnormal for rooms inhabited by Sherlock Holmes. The air was so still that Greg thought the place currently vacant, until he took another step and the mound on the sofa caught his eye.

Sherlock, dressed only in a dressing gown that was tied loosely around his torso, lay sprawled across the sofa, bare feet propped up on its arm, hands clasped together on his chest. His face was directed toward the ceiling, but his eyes were closed.

For a fleeting, horrifying moment that stretched to eternity, Greg feared that one of his deliberately unacknowledged worst-case scenarios had come true. He couldn’t move, the air frozen in his lungs as he willed a sign of life, something – _anything_ – to manifest itself in the motionless form.

“What do you want, Lestrade?”

Time restarted in a rush so sudden it hit Greg with the force of a blow. Sherlock hadn’t moved, but hearing his voice was enough; relief swept through him, leaving him lightheaded.

Pulling himself together, Greg affected a casual nonchalance that was fooling nobody. “I just…wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Sherlock released a sigh. “I’m fine. It’s bad enough having Mycroft constantly hovering over my shoulder, I don’t need you doing it, too.”

“Apparently you do.”

The prone man bared his teeth in a snarl that was born of mild irritation; he couldn’t honestly argue that point. Then, one eye cracked open suspiciously. “You didn’t –”

“No.” Maybe Greg _should_ have informed Sherlock’s brother about this latest lapse, but his thoughts had only been for Sherlock’s welfare, and he had wanted to offer his assistance without running to Mycroft and telling tales, causing more worry and disappointment, if he could keep it under control himself. Sherlock could trust him, and Greg wanted him to know that.

He evidently did, for his expression softened and he gave the Yarder a small nod of gratitude before returning to his previously inert state. Convinced the detective was all right, and, more importantly, not under the influence of anything, Greg decided he should probably leave rather than risk outstaying his welcome.

“Well, since you’re ‘fine’, I’ll leave you to…whatever it is you’re doing.”

He turned back to the door, reluctant but resolute. Whatever might be going on in his own head, it was more important to let Sherlock have his space; the worst thing Greg could do would be to smother him, however well-intentioned his actions were. He was stepping over the threshold when he heard a single, quiet syllable behind him.

“Stay.”

Pausing, Greg looked back over his shoulder. Sherlock was still in exactly the same position; there was no indication he had spoken at all, and Greg wondered if he had heard correctly. The one thing he _was_ certain of, however, was that the request wouldn’t be repeated.

Instead of continuing through the door, Greg stepped back inside the flat and softly pushed the door closed. Removing his coat, he hung it on a free hook beside the Belstaff, his decision made unconsciously.

Sherlock wordlessly confirmed his appeal by bending his knees, sliding his feet from the arm of the sofa to leave the end cushion free. Greg sank into the resultant space, glancing across at the placid, thankfully untroubled face of the younger man as Sherlock lifted his feet again, resettling them in Greg’s lap.

Pleasantly surprised, a smile touched Greg’s lips and he rested his hand on the slender ankle propped comfortably on his thigh. Sherlock accepted the touch, and Greg thought he detected the ghost of a smile twitch at Sherlock’s own lips as his thumb gently stroked the warm, pale skin of Sherlock’s ankle.

Greg had no idea how long they sat like that; he only knew that he would stay as long as he was needed.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from David Bowie's 'All The Madmen'.


End file.
